


Freudian Slip

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: StrikeFicExchange prompts [12]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Awkwardness, F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Valentine's Day Fic Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:53:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22635454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: We’ve all added a kiss on a message to a colleague or called a teacher “mum”. Robin has an unfortunate moment on the phone to Strike...This was written as a single chapter for the Valentine’s Day event back in February, and recently had a fluffy chapter two added.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: StrikeFicExchange prompts [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1368862
Comments: 60
Kudos: 192
Collections: Love Letters: A Cormoran Strike Valentine's Day Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CVH14](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CVH14/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [StrikeLoveLetters](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/StrikeLoveLetters) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Freudian Slip

“Hi, Cormoran, it’s me. I’m safely home, door locked.”

Robin can hear the smile in his reply. “Good to know. Thanks for ringing. A text would have done.”

“I know, but I wanted to say thank you.”

“What for?” He sounds puzzled now. She can hear him moving about in his flat, can tell he hasn’t taken his leg off yet. In fact, she thinks she hears the click of a ring pull.

“For a lovely evening. Are you having more beer?”

“Just the one. With a bit of telly before I turn in.”

Robin giggles. “I’m definitely having tea,” she says, flicking the switch on the kettle. “Not sure that third glass of wine was a good idea. I was going to get up early tomorrow and beat the rush at the pool.”

“Ah, have a lie-in.” She hears him drop into his chair with a sigh of relief.

“Yeah, maybe. I don’t have too much else to do. But anyway, thank you for a nice evening.”

“You too.” His voice is warm. “Although I do feel a bit bad that we always end up in the Tottenham.”

“Why?”

“It’s so much closer to me than you. We need to find a good pub near your place so you don’t have the trek home every time.”

“Oh, I don’t mind.”

“I know. But to make it fairer.”

The kettle is getting louder. Robin pulls her favourite mug down from the cupboard and idly looks at her jumbled boxes of tea bags. A nice mug of Yorkshire? Or a herbal, to help her sleep?

“We can find a pub near here, I’m sure.”

“I’ll do some research.”

“Mm-hm.” Maybe chamomile, she thinks.

There’s a pause. She’s reluctant, suddenly, to put the phone down, to end their day. She’s not going to see him now until Monday, and they’d had such a good evening, discussions of their latest cases dissolving into general chat and then finally sliding into the personal. He’d asked after her parents, and she’d found herself telling him that she was a bit worried about her dad and how breathless he’d seemed last time she was there. He’d listened with empathy and without offering her endless advice, which she’d appreciated. Fondness swells within her as she remembers. He’s such a good friend.

She shakes her head a little. Alcohol-fuelled emotion, she thinks. The silence has stretched too long. The kettle is chuntering loudly now.

“Right, I’d better go,” she says briskly, reaching for the box of chamomile tea bags.

“Yup,” he replies quickly. “See you on Monday.”

She smiles, fishing a tea bag out of the box and dropping it into the mug. “Yes, see you then. Love you, bye.”

She puts her phone down as the kettle clicks, plunging her little kitchen into silence.

It takes too long, several seconds, for her own words to filter properly into her slightly fuzzy brain that is half concentrating on tea, but then it hits her.

She freezes in horror. Did she really just say “love you, bye” to her boss?

The bottom seems to drop out of her stomach as hot mortification rolls through her. She and Strike have grown closer since her divorce, but they don’t discuss...feelings. There’s no way, _no way,_ she can hope that he’d think that was just a friendly goodbye.

She scrabbles for her phone, snatching it up again to text him. Something jaunty, and quickly, she thinks. She hurriedly types.

**Sorry! No idea where that came from, lol. I used to say it automatically to Matt, it just slipped out.**

She presses send, and breathes a small sigh of relief. Excuse made, situation explained.

She scans her text again, and her heart rate spikes once more. She’s made it worse. Not only has she said “love you, bye” to her boss, she’s now told him it’s because that’s how she ended calls to her ex-husband. He probably now believes she’s thinking of him in...that way. Which she isn’t. Definitely not. She’s got that crush business well under control these days, oh, yes. They’re just friends. He must never know how she’s been feeling, bubbling away below the surface for so many months now.

She hurriedly types another text, explaining.

**Not that I’m comparing you to Matt! Sorry. I say it to Mum, too, and Dad, and sometimes even my brothers, lol! I didn’t mean it.** _Send_.

She stares at her phone, her heart racing, her brain a tangled confusion of alcohol and mortification. Her face feels like it might combust, even though there’s no one here to see her blushes. She feels slightly sick. Oh, God, now she’s told him she didn’t even mean it.

**Not that I’m not very fond of you, I didn’t mean I didn’t mean it! I just didn’t mean it like that. It’s just a thing you say.** _Send_.

_What are you doing?_ Now she’s said “love you, bye” to Strike and then sent him three awful and increasingly badly worded texts attempting to explain it away, the very existence of which prove that she’s overthinking. With a low groan of horror, Robin sinks forward, bending to rest her burning forehead on her cool kitchen counter. She closes her eyes and lets the true dreadfulness of the situation sink in.

Maybe she can just never turn up to work again. Run away and join the Navy. Go travelling. Stay in bed for the rest of her life.

In her hand, her phone rings, shattering the silence of her tiny kitchen. Robin squeaks and drops it. By some miracle, the case flips closed as it falls, protecting it from smashing into pieces on the tiled floor. It stops ringing, and suddenly she can hear Strike’s voice, tiny and tinny. “Robin?”

She crouches and picks it up, brings it reluctantly to her ear. “I’m here.”

His voice is low, amused. “Stop texting me.”

Robin slumps to the floor, her back to the wall, her eyes closed. Can this get any worse? “Sorry,” she mutters.

“Are you okay?”

“Besides wishing I could wipe the last five minutes from existence? Fine.”

He chuckles. “You’re the psychologist,” he says, and she can hear him grinning. It only increases her embarrassment. “People make slips like that all the time. I texted Wardle right after I texted Lucy once, and very nearly sent him a message with a kiss at the end. I’d never have heard the last of that.”

“No.” She relaxes a little. He does understand. She just needs to get off the phone, and then hopefully they can never, ever, _ever_ mention this again. “Freudian slip.”

He pauses a beat, and suddenly Robin’s brain catches up with her mouth again. Well, just when she’d thought she couldn’t make things any worse...

“Um, I don’t think that’s what you mean?”

She scrabbles for words. “Well, no, obviously. A Freudian slip is a mistake that supposedly reveals a person’s true underlying feelings.”

“Exactly. Subconscious feelings that they might not even be aware of themselves.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And that’s not what this is.” He hesitates, and she should say something here, she really should, but now, _now_ of all moments, after all the things she’s blurted in the last five minutes, now she can’t think of anything. The entire English language has deserted her. “Is it?” His voice is so quiet it’s almost inaudible, suddenly.

Robin’s brain is frozen. Her throat is frozen. She’s already hesitated too long, and now she’s hesitated again worrying about the hesitation, and now the horror that’s never left her even as she started to think they were back on safer ground is swelling again and she can’t speak. She closes her eyes again.

“Robin?”

“Um, no?”

There’s a long pause. She can almost hear him thinking, trying to work out what to say. In one tiny mistake and a flurry of ill-advised follow-up messages, she’s blown their relationship wide open and revealed something she hadn’t been planning on ever admitting even to herself, let alone her boss.

He’s trying to think of the words to let her down gently, to tell her that he doesn’t see her that way, and she’s never going to be able to face him again. Maybe it’s time to go back to uni and finish her degree. Maybe Vanessa could get her a job in the police.

“Robin—” He sounds afraid. He pauses again.

When he finally speaks, his voice is low and quiet, but there’s a tremble in it she can hear, a tremble that maybe only she would notice, a tremble that makes her think, suddenly, that maybe she hasn’t totally ruined everything after all. “Robin, if that is what this is, tell me. Please.”

She swallows hard, a tiny, tiny flicker of hope in her pounding heart. “Cormoran—” she whispers. Her throat sticks shut again.

He takes a breath, a deep, shuddering sound. “Robin, please. Talk to me.”

“Cormoran, I—” She hesitates. She can’t do this over the phone, she needs to be able to see him, to read his body language, to look into his eyes. “Can you come over?”

“Yes,” he says at once. She hears him put the can down on his little wooden table with a soft thunk. She can hear him already hauling himself up, the jingle of his keys. “I’m coming now. Don’t move.”

“Okay,” she whispers.

“I’m just going to grab—” She can hear him fumbling, his voice dipping in and out. “Damn it, Robin, I need to get my coat on and lock the door. I’m hanging up, but don’t go anywhere, okay? I’ll be there as soon as I find a cab.”

“Okay,” she whispers again, and he’s gone.

Robin clutches her phone to her chest, sat there on her kitchen floor, the tiles cold under her bottom, frozen to the spot. Her heart pounds, her mind is blank. Is this it? Surely he can’t be feeling the same way? He’s never been anything but totally professional around her, never given her any hint—

But, that hug at her wedding.

But, that almost-kiss in a car park.

But, that time at Nick and Ilsa’s last month when he squeezed her hand affectionately and took just a couple of seconds too long to let go. She’d thought she must have imagined it.

Her phone buzzes and she jumps. She opens it again.

**I’m in a cab. There in ten. X**

He’s never put a kiss on a text to her before. That won’t be a Freudian slip. Fingers shaking, she taps out a reply.

**Okay. See you soon. X**

She hesitates. He’s coming over. _Fuck it._

**That is what this is. It was a Freudian slip. X**

She waits. The silence presses down on her. She can hear the ticking of her watch.

Her phone buzzes again and she jumps again. She’s so keyed up, every nerve jangling.

**I know. I’m almost there. X**

With a shaky sigh, Robin pulls herself to her feet. She can’t actually stay sat on her kitchen floor. She’ll need to let him in. And her bottom is going numb.

As though walking in a dream, she moves to her front door, and stands and looks out of the slit of window next to it, above the tiny square of windowsill where her post sits. She’s eerily calm, suddenly.

A black cab pulls into view and draws to a halt. Her heart starts to hammer again. She slides the chain, watching as Strike clambers awkwardly out of the cab and hands a note to the driver, waving away change. He strides to her front door as she opens it. The cab moves away behind him.

Robin stands back, hiding half her body behind the door, and he steps into her little hall. He’s been here before, a few times. They’ve discussed cases over steaming mugs of tea in her cramped living room. He’s loitered in her hall while she finds the bottle of wine she’s taking to curry night and he rings for a cab.

This is different. He’s huge, suddenly, in the tiny space, overpowering, absurdly masculine, and she can’t look at him, the mortification back with a vengeance. What was she thinking, inviting him over? She can’t discuss any of this with those piercing eyes looking into her soul like that.

Strike gently takes the door handle, pulls the door slowly from her grip and closes it. He turns back to her. She examines the floor tiles. They need mopping.

“Robin,” he says softly, and there’s so much fondness, no, _tenderness_ in those two syllables, it doesn’t seem possible.

She forces herself to raise her chin, to look at him, and he steps forward half a step. He reaches out, gently touching her hair, sliding his fingers softly into it, and before she realises his intention, he kisses her.

She gasps against his mouth, feels his uneven lips against hers curve into a smile, and then his tongue comes forward, gently exploring, and she’s lost. She opens her mouth to his and kisses him back clumsily, her heart racing. Her hands are clinging to his upper arms and she has no memory of grabbing him, but her fingers tighten on his biceps through his coat and she makes a little sound of pleasure into his mouth. Both his hands are in her hair now as he kisses her and kisses her, and she’s lost all sense of time.

Slowly, gradually, the kiss ends and he draws back a couple of inches. Robin’s eyes drift open. She’s breathing hard, shell-shocked, and his chest is rising and falling unsteadily too.

The look in his eyes makes her already racing heart skip a few beats, making her feel giddy.

Then he grins. “Love you too,” he says with just a hint of cheekiness, and Robin lets out a sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob, her eyes filling with tears.

She buries her face in the front of his burgundy half-zip jumper, and he wraps his arms around her, pulling her against him. They stand there in her hallway, hugging, feeling each other’s heartbeats, for a long time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gifted to CVH14 - I was casting about for something fluffy to write, but who knew this was what the muse wanted? Thank you for the suggestion!

Robin drifts awake, warm and so comfortable. Her bed is a cosy nest, and as she slowly comes to, she becomes aware of two things.

The first is a rather nasty headache pulling at her temples, making her feel a little sick.

The second is the warm bulk behind her, pressed against her, a heavy arm around her, anchoring her close. The breath on the back of her neck, slow and even. The familiar smell of her work partner.

Robin freezes, tension stiffening her frame. She wills herself to relax, trying not to move, her eyes flitting about the room. The door through to her living area is open, and she can see Strike’s huge coat slung across the back of her little sofa. She can see his prosthetic leg leaning against her bedroom wall, his trousers half-folded next to it. His burgundy jumper is slung on the chair in the corner with her trousers and top from last night.

She searches her memory. Did she just sleep with her boss? She lies very still, trying to remember. Well, obviously she _slept_ with him, because here he still is, spooning her in her bed, wrapped around her. But did they—? She can’t remember it, and she’s pretty sure she would if they had.

She remembers the kiss in the hallway, so thorough and passionate it took her breath away. She remembers him telling her he loved her, grinning cheekily, and she wonders if he was serious. She remembers offering him a whisky, and them sitting on the sofa, sipping their drinks and kissing until she felt quite giddy and she couldn’t tell whether it was from a large whisky on top of three glasses of wine, or from his gentle, passionate kisses.

She remembers— She closes her eyes again in embarrassment as she remembers him saying he should go home, and her clinging to him and begging him to stay, and him suggesting gently that they’d both had a lot to drink and perhaps he should give her some space to think. She remembers giggling and threatening to lock him in, and him asking her in amusement if he was a hostage now, and the look she’d given him that had made his eyes darken.

After that it’s all a little hazy, but she remembers insisting that he go to bed with her “jus’ to snuggle” and the soft look in his eyes as he’d followed her willingly as she dragged him into her bedroom. And after that she can’t remember much else. A little kissing. She must have fallen asleep almost immediately. She’s a little afraid, now she thinks about it and tries to pin down the elusive detail, that she fell asleep mid-snog.

And now here she is, more than a little hungover, but warmer and more comfortable than she thinks she’s ever been in her life. She takes stock of their physical closeness. She’d put her loose stretchy cotton nightgown on at some point and managed to remove her bra at least, and the thickly haired arm wrapped securely around her she can see is encased in a T-shirt sleeve at the top. She assumes he’s wearing his boxers too still.

Thinking about his underwear, she finds herself wondering if he’s— She blushes at the thought, but, well, he’s a guy and it’s the morning, and... They’re not quite slotted together closely enough for her to be able to tell, the dip of the duvet between them forming a cushioned barrier.

 _Now what, Ellacott?_ She asks herself. She needs a wee, and she really wants to brush her teeth so that her mouth feels fresher, but he’s not snoring the snores of the deeply asleep - she’s heard the sound of a properly asleep Strike even from the office below his bedroom - so maybe if she moves she’ll wake him.

Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to stay. She didn’t really give him much choice. She thinks of the beautiful women that have come and gone in his life since she’s known him, and is willing to bet none of them begged him to sleep with them and then didn’t actually have sex with him but just fell asleep. What must he have thought? She knows she doesn’t compare well to the elegant and no doubt experienced beauties he seems to attract.

She’s still trying to decide what to do when his arm tightens around her briefly and he speaks, his voice low and fond against the back of her shoulder.

“Are you going to pretend to be asleep all morning?” She can hear the note of amusement. “Only if you’re not, shall I go and make us some tea?”

Robin knows her cheeks are red, but she also knows she’s been rumbled and she has to admit to being awake or look like a fool. She rolls a little, looking back over her shoulder at him, and the sight of him - bed-soft skin, sleep-hooded eyes, hair even more riotous than usual - takes her breath away.

“I’m awake,” she murmurs and, because he can see her pink cheeks, she adds, “I’m just embarrassed.”

He grins and kisses her cheek. “You’ve got no need to be.”

“I kind of forced you to stay.”

“Robin. I was not unwilling. I just didn’t want you to do something you might regret.” He hesitates. “Do you want me to go?”

Her colour deepens. “No.”

His smile is warm with fondness and a hint of relief. “Shall I make that tea, then?”

Robin nods shyly. “I’ll just pop to the bathroom.”

She scrambles up out of the duvet, and he’s sitting up too as she climbs out of the bed, her head lurching a little at the movement.

“Pass me my leg?” he asks, matter-of-fact, as though this is something they do all the time as opposed to a new and startling development in their relationship. Robin hands it to him and scurries to the bathroom.

By the time she has emptied her bladder, brushed her teeth and swilled mouthwash for good measure, washed last night’s ruined makeup from her face and cupped a few mouthfuls of water to swallow two paracetamol from her bathroom cabinet, Strike has boiled the kettle and is pouring hot water into mugs. He looks for all the world like he does in the office, poking the tea bags with a spoon, except that he’s only wearing a T-shirt and his loose cotton boxers, his arms and legs coated with thick, dark hair, his naked foot a contrast with the prosthetic one that still has his shoe attached.

He looks round at her and grins, and for just a moment his eyes flick downwards. The nightdress barely covers her arse, and she knows he can see all of her legs, but she also knows he can see the stupid jaunty message printed on the front. It had been a present from her parents at Christmas, hardly chosen for its sexiness, but it’s comfy. Robin blushes again.

“Swap?” he says, holding out the teaspoon, and she takes it and he steps around her to the bathroom. His hand ghosts across her hip, a gentle touch that fills her with hope suddenly. Maybe he’s not regretting staying.

He goes into the bathroom and closes the door, and Robin finishes assembling the tea (grinning at the cup of cold chamomile sat by the kettle) and picks up the mugs. She hesitates, and then carries them back to the bedroom.

When Strike returns, she’s sitting up in bed scrolling through her phone just for something to do, really, and she sets the phone aside as he sits down. He hesitates and looks at her, and she smiles and shuffles across and pats the empty space. Grinning, he removes his prosthesis again and sets it aside, and scrambles into bed with her.

It’s incongruous. He’s so big, and so masculine, and he’s her colleague, boss and friend. The idea of him in her bed should be all manner of ridiculous, and yet somehow it seems so right. It helps that he doesn’t give her time to overthink things, leaning forward to slide a hand into her hair and press his lips to hers. It’s a chaste, closed-mouthed kiss, but lingering and full of confident promise, making her insides melt.

He draws back just a little. “Okay?” his voice is husky.

Robin nods shyly. “Yeah.”

“No regrets?”

She flushes again, cursing her colouring that gives away every emotion. “We didn’t do anything to regret.”

He grins wickedly. “That can be remedied,” he replies cheekily, making her turn even redder. Then he hastily adds, “but not if you’re going to regret it, obviously.”

Robin giggles and leans in to him, burying her face in his shoulder, hiding from his intense eyes. He smells glorious, warm and musky. “I wouldn’t regret it,” she mutters against his collarbone. “I won’t regret it, I mean.”

He kisses the side of her head and then gently draws away so he can meet her gaze again, and the look in his eyes makes her heart flutter.

“Good,” he says gently. “Because I know last night was—” He hesitates, reaching for words.

“Last night I was an idiot.” Robin groans, still mortified at the thought.

“Last night was perfect,” he corrects her. He touches her cheek, a gentle caress. “Something had to happen to break the deadlock, and I was too scared to say anything.”

She looks at him curiously, properly meeting his gaze for what feels like the first time on this weird, wonderful morning. “Scared? Why?”

He shrugs. “Because how I’ve been feeling is, by any measure of employer-employee relationships, utterly inappropriate. You have a right to do your job without—” He breaks off again and looks at her helplessly.

“Without what?”

“Without— Well, you know. If I’d told you I love you and you didn’t feel the same, where would that have left us? We couldn’t have carried on working together like we do. At the very least it would have been hideously awkward.”

Robin swallows hard. “You meant it, then?”

He looks at her, and she sees confusion and then comprehension flit across his face. He takes her hand in his.

“Robin, of course I meant it. Why would I say it if I didn’t?”

Robin shrugs. “I’m not fishing, honestly. I’m just not...” It’s her turn to trail off.

“Not what?” He’s taken both her hands in his now, drawing her closer.

“I’m not Lorelei, or Elin, or—” She can’t bring herself to say the name that hangs, unspoken, between them.

Strike gazes back at her. “No,” he agrees. “But I think I might be done with dysfunctional relationships. With either trying to fix people or holding them at arm’s length. I think I’d like something proper, mature, settled. With you.”

Tears prickle in Robin’s eyes. “I’d like that too.”

“And besides,” he says with an air of wanting to get everything out in the open. “I’m not Matthew.”

Robin snorts. “Do you think I’d be giving you the time of day if you were?”

His gaze is level. He won’t be distracted. “I mean, you loved him once.”

Robin nods, understanding. “Much, much longer ago than I ever admitted to myself,” she replies. “I loved him in our teens, when we had so much in common and he was my first real boyfriend. We were growing apart as soon as we went to separate universities, but then I needed someone safe...”

Strike nods. He understands.

Robin looks down at their hands, twines her fingers with his. Might as well say everything that’s on her mind, while they’re doing this. “I’ve never slept with anyone else.”

“Really?” His surprise is gratifying. “What about that guy Ilsa set you up with?”

Robin shrugs. “A few dates, no spark,” she replies. She peeks up at him, cheeky. “Why, did you mind?”

It’s Strike’s turn to flush, to avoid her gaze. “A bit. Okay, a lot.” But she can see he’s delighted at her admission, that there had been nothing between her and Luke other than a few chaste kisses that had done absolutely nothing for her.

“I think I was hoping you and I would—” She hesitates, and he grins at her.

“Me too.”

Robin pauses, and then says in a rush, before she can worry about it, “I love you.”

His smile is soft, his expression dazed, as though she has said something miraculous. “I love you too.”

“So—”

“So.”

“What now?”

Strike grins at her wickedly, making her blush again. “I can think of a few things.”

“I meant—”

“I know. I’m only teasing. I guess now we’re partners in all senses of the word? And we’ll work it out as we go along, I suppose.”

Robin nods.

Strike sits back a little and picks up his tea, so Robin does likewise. They sip and gaze at one another, and she knows she’s grinning goofily, and he is too. Happiness fizzes in her stomach.

“How’s your head?” he asks her.

Robin thinks. “Not too bad, actually. I took a couple of paracetamol,” she admits.

He smiles at her. “I thought you might have,” he says. “You look less peaky than you did first thing.”

Robin puts her mug down again, only half drunk. “I feel fine,” she replies, and looks at him meaningfully. “Quite fine.”

His eyes darken, and he turns to set his tea aside too.

“In that case—” he murmurs, turning back to her, and he pulls her into his arms and kisses her, thoroughly this time, leaving no doubt as to his intent.


End file.
